The Fighter
by tainteddaughter
Summary: After the death of his mother, sixteen year-old Percy Jackson has made himself a new home inside the Long Island Boxing Rink. But between the endless hours of blood, sweat and tears, he finds himself drawn to a particular blonde fighter.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey guys. So I've been reading a LOT of Percabeth stories lately and I suppose it inspired me to begin with one of my own. I hope you enjoy the story and please don't hesitate to let me know what you think.**

* * *

In my deepest heart, I always wanted to be a lover; but there was no approval in bouquets of red roses and no fulfillment in poetry with careful words that rhymed at the edges.

I'd spent two years slamming my fist into concrete, admiring the way that blood sometimes resembled the color of rose petals. The shade of crimson matched the warmth of my mother's smile. It was the only image of her that hadn't yet vanished from my head. Triggering it, recognizing that reddish color, was the most effective way of keeping her alive.

People say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. When she died, it felt like I was seeing her life only once before all of the memories vanished.

Fighting is the simplest form of self destruction. You lose your dignity as you watch your teeth drop onto an unknown floor. You lose your morality when you start picturing people not as friends but as moving targets, each with an "x" where there eyes should be. But most of all, you lose your faith in the moments when the clock nears zero, knowing full and well within your steel heart that the sound of the buzzer is the sound of God determining your fate.

Sometimes I compare that intensity to love.

If fighters can reek of violence and if love encourages you to commit violent actions, why are the two not interchangeable?

Because, as my step father always said to me, "the only way to be the stronger man is to uphold an invulnerable heart."

His breath smelled like a mixture of whiskey and coffee when he spoke to me. I'd learned to ignore the words that he chose to give. He spoke of happiness being related to ignorance, disgust and hatred. He spoke to me like I was nothing more than an itch on his shoulder - one that he was dying to shake off. I'd kept myself sane in his presence for the sake of my mother. But for the last two years, she hadn't been around to keep me anchored. Now, at age sixteen, exhausted from my own exhaustion, I'd lost my anchor. I'd shredded my sanity. I'd moved my home into the attic of a building that reeked of sweat.

My fist slammed against something less rough. Leather. The punching bag constantly swung back into place. The sound of my skin hitting the raw material made a noise like music.

A girl with bright red hair had joked about that, once.

 _"Hey, Percy. You ever not working on those muscles?" she asked me, eyeballing my body like it was some sort of machine._

 _"Not sure, Rachel. Try me on a day that doesn't end in 'y'."_

We laughed it off, but the way that her eyes shot glances in my direction sometimes made me feel like there were other things that she wanted to ask.

There was no opposition inside of me when she rested her fingertips on my arms, her hands into my jet-black hair, her words into my ringing ears. There was no opposition to the way she constantly decided to _slowly_ say my name.

But there was no passion. There was no feeling. There was no color within the clouded grey that colored the room of the Long Island Boxing Club. There was my body and Rachel Elizabeth Dare's body.

And then there was the fighter.

She was golden with every step she took. Her hair fell in ringlets across the top of her shoulders. In the split second that she looked at me, her eyes shined with a grey that brought mystery to the dullness.

Today was Wednesday afternoon.

Tomorrow might be less empty.


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't know her name.

I thought through a few in my mind as I stared at the back of her head.

It wasn't a movie moment. I hadn't stumbled over myself trying to steal a glance at her. I didn't feel like dying for her. Love in split seconds seemed, to me, rather unrealistic. My mother had looked for love for years after my father had left. She died alone.

But I could admit that I was incredibly intrigued. There were a couple of frequents at the rink. Most were men with years of pent up emotional issues. And there was the occasional Rachel Elizabeth Dare, who despite our failed relationship had become somewhat of a friend. Fighters, she had told me once, were the most interesting people. They spoke in actions rather than words. I knew that she was right. The only words that I could master were ones made of sarcasm, and even I wasn't sure if my jokes made sense sometimes. The best way for me to release my anger was something physical. Never something spoken.

But not once in my two years of hiding out here had I seen a girl enter with a bottle of water and a rag to wash away sweat. There were female kickboxing classes on occasion. Some came into lift weights. This blonde girl, who appeared to be around my same age, didn't even have headphones with her. All she had was a fierce look in her eyes.

I watched as she sent her first punch into the bag. Of course, I pretended to be distracted by my untied shoelaces, but I couldn't deny my own curiosity. She could throw a good hit. Her posture was slightly crooked, her footing a little off, but her strength was enough to shake the room.

Again and again she hit, and again and again I recognized myself in her actions. She pushed herself with only the energy of somebody who needed to release a gallon of buried anger. Her feet never stopped bouncing. I wondered for a moment if she shared my constant battle with ADHD.

Then again, I'd stopped considering it a battle. Now it was only a strength. I beat grown men in matches because I simply couldn't sit still. I pushed himself every night and day because I simply couldn't think of something better to do with my time. And naturally, I grew restless as I watched the girl with golden hair.

Needless to say, I positioned myself close to her, although the room was small enough that we would be close no matter where I chose to stand. My bruised knuckles went crashing into the same target that they'd hit only a few moments ago. The leather was beginning to tear. This bag was by far the most worn out.

It was also the only one that was blue.

She flickered her stare back over to me for a moment, and of course, I met it with a small smirk. I couldn't even begin to imagine how strange I must've looked. The shirt I wore was purple, displaying the name of a band I'd never even heard of. My shoes were two sizes too large. My hair had grown wild within the last few months. It shaped my face in random curls and waves. Hers, on the other hand, was perfectly contained.

"Try straightening your back a bit," I muttered, freezing for a moment. The blonde stared with a look of confusion in her eyes, as if she hadn't expected me to speak to her. She didn't look like somebody who would listen to authority. Or the opinion of a sixteen year old boy with messy hair and bloody knuckles.

But she straightened her spine and sent her fist towards the bag again. It went further than it had before.

"Thanks," she spoke. Her voice was somewhat raspy, as if she was battling a cold. I shrugged, trying not to look like I cared too much, and turned my back around again to my own target.

"Try the Catcher in the Rye."

"What?" I questioned, turning back to face the stranger. She smirked in a way that matched my own.

"It's a book. Reading's a good distraction. Better than beating away the skin on your fists."

Again, she shrugged and turned around, and again I found himself stuck in a state of confusion. I sat in silence for much too long. Long enough that I missed my opportunity to ask her for a name before she exited the boxing rink, releasing her blonde curls from the tie that held them up.

I spent the rest of the evening looking for a map to the nearest library.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing I noticed about the West Long Island Library was that they firmly believed in air conditioning.

The boxing rink did not. My arms broke out in cold chills, and after some time I realized that the library probably would've made a much nicer temporary home. The only issue, of course, being the fact that it was coated in people. They came from four entrances positioned around the place, entered in complete silence, and drifted towards a genre that appealed to them. They were all of different shapes, sizes and skin tones. I had never seen so many people absorbed in the words of another.

"Catcher in the Rye," I said to a tall, pale woman who caught my eye with a friendly smile. But she couldn't hide the flicker of concern that flashed over her face when she noticed my current appearance. It was the same look that my teachers at Yancy Academy gave me.

Yes, despite everything, I still attended high school. Gabe and I had come to an agreement. He would leave me to fend for myself, sleep in his boxing rink and avoid association as long as no social workers interrupted his long, tiring days of gambling and alcohol.

The librarian handed me a book with a torn, brown cover. It looked as if it has seen better days. But I took it from her carefully and flashed a small, thankful grin.

"It's getting a bit dark outside," she spoke, eyes flickering towards the rounded windows. "Are you sure you don't need a ride home?"

There it was. That comment full of pity and pain. That comment that had ruined most all of my friendships - because Gods does it feel rather tiring to be stared at like a mental case. "No thank you," I muttered in response, trying not to look annoyed. "Just the book, please."

She nodded. Slowly, we walked back towards her computer screen.

"Do you have an account with us?"

Shit. I'd forgotten that you needed an ID to apply for a library membership. My wallet was tucked away in the upstairs corner of the rink. "Rachel Elizabeth Dare," I spoke, words rushed, "Check it out under her account. She's my girlfriend."

The librarian smiled, apparently pleased that I had somebody looking after me. I silently thanked Gabe for making me into a wonderful liar.

* * *

The next thing I saw was "6:45 AM" flashing on the clock. I had to leave the rink by 7 if I wanted to make it to school on time. However, my eyes appeared red and puffy in the mirror and the muscles in my neck ached from staring down for so long. Last night had passed in a blur of pages. I had never been one for reading. My teachers at Yancy had asked my mother years ago to blacklist Sparknotes from my laptop's search engine.

After finishing the Catcher in the Rye, it was very possible that I hated reading even more than I had before.

The plot was frustrating, the main character infuriating, but I had held onto some hope that the Fighter's advice was worth following. Unfortunately, it hadn't been.

I shrugged on my blue backpack. I wore the same shirt as yesterday, but covered it with my zipped up leather jacket. Nobody would notice, hopefully. It was always only the teachers who were curious about my messy appearance. The girls my age were more focused on small talk and the boys mainly stayed far away.

However, I did have a best friend. Grover Underwood greeted me with a brown sacked lunch in his right hand. Ever since he had accidentally slipped to his parents that I was technically "homeless", she'd insisted on packing me lunch. It was the same thing everyday - turkey sandwich, seven carrots and a can of soda (Grover constantly insisted on eating the can), but I would be damned if I wasn't thankful. People from all over town had extended some sort of service to me. My old gym teacher, after quitting six months ago, had given me a job at our local carnival. Adult men eagerly bet against me in a test of strength. They never predicted that a teenage boy, with naturally skinny arms and legs, spent his time within the walls of a boxing rink.

"You look worse than usual," Grover joked. He patted my arm.

"Didn't sleep much," I replied, showing him the book. His eyes instantly grew wide with shock.

"Percy Jackson actually ** _read_** something?! I refuse to believe it!"

"As if you've touched a book within the last four years."

"Good point," he agreed.

The air outside was beginning to grow colder. New York winters were brutal, especially when walking was your primary form of transportation. Grover was bundled in a pink sweater. "Juniper bought it for me," he grumbled, noticing the smile on my lips. "But back to the major issue here. Why the hell were you reading? Did Brunner assign Homework that I didn't know about?"

"You know, the chance of me doing homework is actually _less_ likely than me reading for pleasure," I continued, "A girl recommended it to me."

"Rachel?"

"Not Rachel. She was blonde. Came down to the rink to pack a few punches, actually. I've never seen her before."

Grover smirked mischievously. His eyebrows always raised slightly when the gears inside his brain were rotating.

"She's in our Literature class, dude. Got here yesterday while you were meeting with the counselor."

"Lots of blonde girls in the world, Grover," I replied, "Doubt it's the same one."

"Do all girls have scabs on their knuckles like you do? She looks tough, Perc. Like she's been hitting things in her free time."

* * *

We arrived at Yancy only seconds before the first period bell rang, allowing both of us the long, always enjoyable trip to the counseling office for a late pass. I could've sworn I spent more time in this room than the extent of my academic classes combined.

"Morning, Mr. D," I spoke to the man working the front desk. His eyes barely drifted away from his computer.

"Late again, Johnson?"

" _Jackson_. And would you expect anything less of me?"

He rolled his eyes and finally noticed Grover.

"Not you, too," he spoke, annoyance audible in his voice.

"I'm a bad influence," I shrugged. I passed a blue pass over to Grover and then grabbed one for myself. Mr. D reminded me of my future detention as I exited the office.

* * *

"Late again?" Mr. Brunner questioned, pausing class to stare down Grover and I.

"Funny," I smirked, "It's almost like this conversation already happened."

"Well," he answered, pushing his glasses further up his nose, "I'm sure the school will be happy to make you pay for all the paper you waste." He threw the pass away and motioned for Grover and I to sit down. My eyes fell upon my desk in the back of the classroom, but Grover was already sitting there. He winked at me.

Sitting next to the only desk in the room was a blonde girl with strikingly grey eyes.


End file.
